"Yes, that’s straight. He was poor, darned poor. We were all poor. He used to say that a man with more children than brains had no place in the ministry." "I should think that possibly your father had brains," suggested Billy. "Yes," admitted the Watermelon. "But they didn’t keep pace with the children." "What happened to you all? Why—er—why couldn’t you have worked at something?" She was gazing at him bewildered, trying to get a grasp on the new state of affairs. "Aw, we went from bad to worse," muttered the Watermelon sullenly. "Father left the ministry. He used to say that you could appreciate the glory of the Almighty much better in a dollar bill than in the Bible." "Maybe he had—er—no leanings toward the ministry," murmured Billy, endeavoring to express as politely as possible her growing conviction that the Reverend Mr. Martin was not a godly man. "Maybe not," agreed the Watermelon. "But when a man’s down, every one’s down on him. Nothing father did went right. Ma died and the home broke up—I don’t know what’s become of all the others—working, I suppose, day after day, like slaves in a galley, you know. I tried it, and every night I drank to drown the damnable monotony and stupidity of it all. So, you see what I am, a bum—a tramp." "And yourself, my love, my Jerry." Billy held out her hands and he caught them and held them tightly in both his own for a moment, then dropping them, turned away with half a sob. "Don’t, Billy. Don’t make it so hard for me, dear. We can’t marry. I’m filth and you’re sweetness and purity." "But other men have married. You aren’t the only one who isn’t clean." "I know, but I love you. See? When you love a person, you don’t make them suffer for it. You can’t understand, Billy, for you have never known life. You don’t begin to know what it means. I will probably marry a girl from the streets, or one with no brains and no soul. But, you see, I love you." Billy’s eyes blazed. "You will never marry any one else with me alive," said she. "How could I marry you, dear? I have nothing—absolutely nothing. We couldn’t have a home anywhere." "We can make a home," pleaded Billy. She leaned toward him and laid her hand on his arm, smiling into his moody face with all the charm, the daring, the tenderness of a woman who loves and is fighting for her happiness with every weapon at her command. "You can’t make a home with nothing to make it on," said the Watermelon. "Ah, but we have something to make it on," cried Billy. "We have you and me." "But no money." "Why, Jerry, I have money; hundreds, thousands, dear." But the Watermelon shook his head. "Money wouldn’t be any good when I’m rotten," said he. "Dear," crooned Billy, and kissed him on the chin, for she could reach no higher. "Billy," he groaned. "Tell me you love me, Jerry." "Tell you I love you? Ah, sweetheart." "Tell it to me, Jerry."